


Lay Down Your Burdens

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOWAR, Cassian loses his wings, Deep Talks happen between them, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, PAAAAAAAIN, if that ain't your jam you should skedaddle now, like....hurt/hurt/hurt/hurt/hurt/hurt/hurt/hurt/tiny bit of comfort to break up the monotony, that's what we're looking at here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 03:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10505346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: Nesta can’t sleep. Restless and frustrated she wanders the House of Wind in search of purpose. She finds Cassian alone and in agony after losing his wings and the two find what little solace they can in each other. Hurt/comfort where it’s like a 90/10 split between the hurt and the comfort. I’m sorry. ACOWAR/Post-ACOMAF.'“What are you doing?” he rasps to her, staring with her with a combination of shock and wonder.“I-“ Nesta begins, frowning a little, unable to help herself, “I’m just holding your hand.”He swallows, “It’s helping,” he whispers softly.'





	

Lay Down Your Burdens

Nesta can’t sleep.

There’s nothing new or strange in that, not really. Even before… _This_ , she always struggled with it, with letting go of herself enough to surrender to the dreams-that vulnerable oblivion- that waited for her on the other side of closed eyelids and lowered guards. Feyre and Elain would have drifted off beside her, their slow, deep breathing filling the room around her while she lay awake, poker straight and stiff beside them, staring at the ceiling, unable to switch off or silence the roaring of the thought sand emotions running through her head that always seemed to become the loudest when they should have at last gone quiet.

After….After the Cauldron, after Hybern, after everything changed and she was given this so called _gift_ of immortality that she had never asked for, never wanted, and can’t even bring herself to comprehend…After that every slight noise had became a deafening alarm bell in her ears, warning her of danger, making every muscle in her body seize as panic gripped her over and over and over again. The sheets, though they were silk and smoother than cream, still felt rough as the bark on the wooden logs she’d once split for firewood outside their hovel. Her senses have been tearing her apart piece by piece by piece since she emerged from that Cauldron. This new body has been destroying her mind, her only sanctuary, and no-one noticed.

 It was only a matter of time before she snapped.

Tonight, though…Tonight is different. She’s unsettled, uncomfortable, her new body prickling and reacting to things that she can’t see, can’t even sense or understand like every other night but…But there’s something else, something she’s never felt before. A pull in her chest, as though someone has tied a string to one of her ribs and is tugging on it, gently but insistently, coaxing her toward... _something_.  

Turning over she clamps her pillow over her head, curling in on herself, trying to ignore the sensation but it becomes ever more insistent. Pulling, pulling, pulling, on and on and on, relentless, never-ending, an internal torture. She closes her eyes, breathing slowly, deeply, refusing to be beaten by this, refusing to let her own body drive her to madness. A few minutes later however, hot, barely able to breathe, she throws the pillow from herself in disgust and climbs from the bed.

She shivers slightly as she steps out of her room. Her night gown, though long, is also thin, but she welcomes the chill. It seems to calm her, clears her mind, helps her think more clearly…That pressure inside her chest is only building, however. She had thought her heightened senses were reacting to something in her room, making her uncomfortable, she had thought leaving it would make it stop but somehow it only makes it worse.

Shrugging Nesta sets off purposefully down the corridor. She has no idea where she’s going. She and Elain had moved into the House of Wind a few days ago – she had wanted them to be closer to the action, not shut up in that terrible little cabin that was filled with so many reminders of her sister and that wouldn’t allow her to properly unleash her rage. When she had screamed her fury there had been no-one there to hear her but Elain. When she had smashed plates and mirrors and whatever else she had come into contact with the cabin had only placidly repaired the damage, made it as though it had never been, as though her anger was not real, was not right. It had infuriated her. And they’d had no idea what was going on, Rhysand had wanted to dump them there, keep them alive but out of the way and she wouldn’t stand for that. She wanted to know what was happening to Feyre, what they were doing to get her back, what she could do to help.

After a long, loud, furious outburst directed at Mor when she came to check up on them Rhys had allowed them to come here to stay in the centre of Velaris so they would know what was going on. He had offered them a tour of the house when they’d arrived but both had declined. As such Nesta has no idea where her feet are taking her, and since she’s paying so little attention to where she’s going she has no idea if she’ll be able to find her way back. She finds that she doesn’t care all that much. She doesn’t seem to care about much of anything these days.  

She finds a set of stairs and climbs them, struggling a little as she always does, her body dealing too easily with the physical challenge, tripping her.  She ascends into another corridor – another wing of the House and pads soundlessly over the halls. She hadn’t thought to put anything on her shoes and the stones beneath her bare feet are freezing but she ignores that too.

The tight thumping in her chest is still getting worse, louder, more insistent. But no matter what direction she goes in it continues, pulsing and throbbing as though there’s something trapped inside her, beneath her skin. She resists the frantic temptation to tear open her nightgown and check…But she can’t stop herself from running her hands over herself. She can’t feel anything, no bumps or odd swellings or strange marks anywhere. All there is is her heart, pumping rhythmically beneath her ribs.

Even with her heightened senses however she can’t find the source of the throbbing in her chest, that thing that is starting to feel like a second heartbeat pulsing within her. She doesn’t understand and she wants it to stop, would do anything to make it stop but she doesn’t know what it is or how to do that.

She braces herself in one of the windows, hands planted firmly against the solid stone beneath her, using it to support herself. There’s no glass in them and she gulps down the cool night air, her body shaking, going suddenly hot and cold all over in alarming flushes. She fears that she might be sick and there’s pain, such pain burning in her shoulders but she doesn’t understand why.

Just as she’s about to scream, sure she’s going to collapse to the ground and die any second, it all stops. The soft beat of that thing inside her chest remains but the sickness, the terrible agony are both gone. She straightens. Sweat clings to her skin, plastering her hair to her forehead and her thin nightdress to her body but she ignores it. There’s no-one here to see her- a good thing, since she’s still shaking. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to regain her composure; and makes herself keep walking. That seems important, to keep moving, keep going, not to stop or else it will find her again, catch her again. She hurries her steps a little along the corridor.

Her body seems to know where to go even though she’s not giving it instructions. She takes a left and marches purposefully down another corridor, a right which takes her into a narrow hall meant for the servants. Another left, and then again in quick succession, opens a door in the wall that was all but invisible – she’s sure she’s never seen it before, has never gone through it or even heard about it yet she found it. She doesn’t question that strangeness, she just climbs the narrow spiral staircase that she finds behind it, ascending up, up, up, into a tower room well removed from the rest of the house.

When she finally stops she’s breathing hard. Even with her new, powerful fae body the journey up here has taken something out of her. She feels calmer, better now, as though she’s somehow arrived, is where she’s meant to be. But the beat in her chest is now pounding like a hammer against an anvil, erasing the sound and feel of her own heartbeat in her ears. All that she is, all that she’s aware of is that string of  _something_. Except it doesn’t feel very much like a string now. It’s a tether, a chain, with links as large as her fist, anchoring her to something, or someone and-

A soft, low moan of pain interrupts her frantic thoughts. Nesta freezes in place, staring around her. She doesn’t know where she is, what she might have walked in to. The room is dark, quiet. There’s a huge bed – built, she’s learned, to accommodate great, Illyrian wings and thought he sheets are messy, indicating someone has been here recently, the bed itself is currently empty. She checks the wash room in the corner, the cosy study, the small library full of scrolls that look like maps and reports, all neatly stacked and labelled in a firm, bold hand- both are empty.  

Someone groans again, and she hears a smash from nearby – the balcony. Nesta tenses, body seizing up in anticipation, instincts born of this fae blood burning in her veins. “Hello?” she calls uncertainly, taking a hesitant step towards the balcony though every fibre of her being rebels against the action.

She _should_ leave, she should direct someone else up here, or just go, every one of the mortal instincts she still holds in her heart are telling her to run, to flee, to hide, to forget that she ever came her…But something deeper, something stronger, urges her forwards. She doesn’t fight it.

Nesta tentatively edges outside, her hands still gripping the walls, ready to push off them, to turn and head for the narrow spiral stairs as fast as she can if anything tries to hurt her. The wind snatches at her hair, throwing it up around her face as she edges out into its stinging bite. Her eyes light on the near prone figure before her almost at once and she recoils, her heart seizing painfully tight in her chest.

_Cassian_ …By the forgotten gods…

His wings, those great, beautiful black wings…The wings she had watched shredded before her eyes in the throne room of Hybern. The things that she knew were his pride and joy, the wings that carried him into the sky where he truly knew happiness and peace. Gone. Gone. Behind him where once there was freedom now there is only empty space. The darkness of the night pools in places she should not have been able to see it over his shoulders.

Nesta stands frozen, transfixed, staring at him in horror, trying to comprehend his loss. Logic manages to swamp her emotion at last, tamping it down, making it possible to focus on the practical now the staggering implications of his loss at another time.

 Something is wrong with him, badly wrong, from the way he’s shaking, the pain glazing his hazel eyes. She should go to him, she should help him, she should do something but…But she doesn’t know what. She can’t see a wound, can’t see any trace of blood. The bandages around the stumps on his back are clean and look fresh but he’s trembling with agony. She doesn’t understand, she doesn’t-

He convulses again and for a moment she’s not standing on a balcony at the top of the House of Wind. She’s in Hybern again. She’s watching him lurch blindly towards her, groaning her name, trying to get to her as his wings spatter blood over the stone floor beneath him. She remembers the cracked sound of his voice. It reaches her. Even amidst the chaos, the crying, the screams around her. She remembers his voice. She remembers the way he said her name. She remembers the way he’d screamed. She remembers, she remembers.

She wrenches herself back into the present with difficulty and when he gives another soft cry of pain. She doesn’t have time for this. She has to do something. She turns in the doorway, back into the dark, quiet room behind her.

She can’t help him, can’t heal him, can’t comfort him, can’t do anything for him. She’s a cold creature, made for bitterness and hate and anger. She does not know how to soothe someone in their grief, help them struggle through a loss she can’t begin to comprehend, pain she can’t even find a source for. She should find someone- Mor or Azriel or Rhys-  _anyone_  who can help take care of him.

She doesn’t think he even knows that she’s there, blinded by pain and grief as he is, it’s better if she slips away, brings him someone who might actually do something for him.

Nesta’s taken a single step back inside when two things happen at once – blinding pain bursts suddenly through her body, beginning at her chest, at the point where that chain is connected to her, but radiating out to her shoulder blades, making her arch in sudden fright, gripping the wall for support, her body shaking violently both from the intensity of the sensation but also the shock of it.

As the sudden wave of pain ebbs she hears Cassian’s voice call to her, hoarse and raw from his screaming but distinct and sharp, piercing straight to her soul, “Please…Don’t leave me.”

She stares down at him, a protest rising in her throat- the terrified assertion that she can’t help him, she can’t. She doesn’t know what’s wrong, she doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t know how to comfort him. She should go, she should find someone who does, someone who can take care of him. But the words won’t come. They stick in her throat and she only stands there, staring at him as he shakes, doubling over, his fists pounding into the rough stone, anchoring himself, giving himself something else to feel.  

Pain throbs in her shoulder blades again and this time she’s looking right at him when it happens and she can see the place where his wings would have joined his back and it’s there, there that the agony burns.

His pain. She’s feeling his pain.

She doesn’t understand why but her brain doesn’t give her long enough to process the thought. One moment she’s standing there, feeling, realising this without understanding but then...Then she’s moving, moving towards him before she’s quite given her body permission to do so because she can’t just stand there, she _can’t_ , she has to go to him, she has to try, she has to do something.

Crouching down beside him she places a hand tentatively on his shoulder. He doesn’t throw her off or push her away and she takes that as a good sign but how…How can she help him? How can she do anything at all? She has never been good at this, has never known what to do, what to say to make things better. Elain seemed to find it so easy, she always seemed to know, a few gentle words, some soft smiles and the person she was comforting was nodding and hugging her and thanking her. Nesta had marvelled at it. She had felt like another breed of being entirely in those moments, locked out from that secret world of intuitive, instinctive kindness and comfort. She didn’t like words. They never seemed to leave her mouth right, never seemed to be what was needed, only ever seemed to make these kind of things worse.  

Terror rises in her throat because they’re alone, they’re completely alone and he’s in agony and she’s lost and broken with no idea how to help herself never mind the shattered Illyrian on his knees before her. But she squeezes his shoulder gently, murmurs his name. She half expects him to snarl at her, to push her away, for his condition to deteriorate just by her mere, noxious presence but he stills, just a little, in response to her touch.

“Cassian what-“ she stops, thinking of the words before she says them. How can she ask him what’s wrong? She knows what’s wrong- his wings have been amputated and it’s killing him but…But up close she still can’t see any signs of physical irritation. Still, she swallows down that question and tries tentatively with another, “What can I do?” she asks softly, trying to keep her voice low and soothing though she can feel the desperate strain in her words. “Is there a tonic I can get you in your room?” she asks, jerking her head back towards the tower, “A salve? Some herbs? Anything?”  

He shakes his head, the motion slow and jerky as if even that causes him pain. “It’s not…It’s…” he swallows hard, “It’s not a physical pain,” he explains softly, his breathing ragged, every word seeming to cost him a great effort. “Sometimes…When a warrior loses a hand, a limb, in battle they….They can feel it later, it’s as though the limb is there, the injury fresh and I…I…” he reaches behind himself, groping in the empty air over his shoulders as though seeking something that’s invisible, something only he knows is there. Tears prick his eyes, roll silently down his cheeks as he whispers hoarsely, “I can feel them.”

Nesta stares down at him, horror twisting in her gut, a lump forming in her throat. She has no idea what to say to him, is afraid of saying anything at all in case it’s the wrong thing. And she can’t just squeeze his shoulder again but she has to do something, something- A wave of utter hopelessness wells up inside her, crashing over her, whispering words in her head that have haunted her since she was a child worthless, helpless, selfish, burden, burden, burden, burden, _burden_. It threatens to overcome her, nearly causes her to crumple to the floor right alongside him and sob with him but she can’t, she has to be strong for him she has to do something. Do something, do something, do something, anything, help him, help him, help him.

 But she doesn’t know how.  She never does.

He shudders violently again, his back arching in pain and he slams a fist thoughtlessly into the wall beside him, just needing a counter to the awful burning agony that’s tearing through his back, the ghosts of his wings. “No, stop, stop!” Nesta cries sharply, her voice piercing the still night air like a whip when she sees his knuckles split, blood leaking from them.

Without thinking she reaches out and grabs his hand in hers pulling it against her chest and holding it there, holding him. He stares up at her his eyes full of pain and fear and grief and she would do anything to make it stop, to return his wings to him, to stop him looking at her like that. She tentatively shuffles a little closer, since her touch seems to be doing him some good, and he starts in surprise at the same time as a dull, hot throb of pain licks along her spine. Ignoring it, she focuses on him but he’s staring at her with something like awe in his eyes, his breathing easing up a little.

“What are you doing?” he rasps to her, staring with her with a combination of shock and wonder.

“I-“ Nesta begins, frowning a little, unable to help herself, “I’m just holding your hand.”

He swallows, “It’s helping,” he whispers softly.

His eyes never leave hers, boring into her as though he can see straight through her soul. She’s never felt so vulnerable as she has when he looks at her. But she’s never felt so safe, either.

It’s another one of the agonizing contradictions she finds in being with him. She’d felt irritated with his presence whenever he’d visited the house with letters or instructions…But as soon as he’d left she’d wished he was there again. She had been terrified by what his touch had inspired in her, terrified of what he might be able to do to her body if she let him…But unable to stop thinking about it, craving it, his lips on her neck, his strong, hard body pressing hers into the wall, a kiss pressed to her lips, lower. She’d wanted to hate him, wanted to fear him and had found herself unable to do either of those things with ease…which in turn had made her hate and fear him for the effect that he had on her. He had wanted to help her but she hadn’t known how to let him….And now she wants to help him…But she doesn’t know how.

“Don’t,” she gasps, shaking her head and lowering her eyes, unable to keep looking at him. She doesn’t want this from him, she doesn’t want that compassion. She doesn’t want him to be able to read her like he holds her heart in his hands and can see the words printed upon it, telling him what she wants, what she needs. She doesn’t want him to think of her right now, of her insecurities, her pains when he’s suffering like this. She doesn’t want him to try and make her feel better when that’s what she should be doing for him.

 “I’m not doing anything,” she mumbles flatly.   

“You must be doing something,” Cassian insists and now that she looks at him he does look a little better. Some of the colour has stolen back into his cheeks, his eyes look clearer and his shaking isn’t as bad. Instinctively, she tightens her grip on his hand.  

“I’m not, I’m just…I’m just holding your hand,” she says, trying not to snap at him or let her frustration show when he’s in this condition.

Then a panicked thought steals through her- what if it’s magic? What if she’s using magic on him? What if she’s doing it without even knowing that she is what if- Her frantic thoughts are interrupted by a dull pulse of pain and she rolls her shoulders in irritation, trying to throw off the cramping muscle, wondering if perhaps she’d lain on it awkwardly earlier that night while she’d been sleeping or-  

Cassian’s sharp intake of breath makes her look up. His eyes are wide as he stares at her, his mouth open slightly in shock. Then he says, voice hoarse and strained, “You can feel it, can’t you?”  

“What?” she demands and this time it does come out in a snap as another, stronger, throb pulses through her body.

“The pain,” he breathes, staring at her as though he can’t believe that she’s real, that this is happening but Nesta only feels lost, even more in the dark about everything. The more he seems to understand the more confused she is in turn. “My pain,” he clarifies to her, rolling his shoulders in the same motion she had just made, “My…My wings.”

She stares at him, about to protest, to tell him that’s ridiculous, impossible, but then she feels them…She feels what he feels. Not just the pain but the heaviness, the weight of them at her back, the spread of them, the kiss of the wind filling them, that sudden desperate, burning hunger, no need, to let them flare wide and high, to let them carry her back into the waiting sky where she belongs, where her blood sings to be where-

With a startled cry she drops his hand and scrambles backwards. She doesn’t know what just happened, what she just felt, how it happened, why but she had felt it- had felt not only his pain but his loss, his grief, his instincts roaring in her own blood. The moment she drops his hand Cassian groans again and lurches forwards, pain dragging him under again. Nesta moves towards him again, grabbing his hand with both of her own, unable to bear seeing him suffer like that.

After a few long, horrible moments his ragged breathing eases once more and his tightly locked muscles relax somewhat, still trembling but no longer seizing up with the strength of his discomfort.

“We’re…Sharing it,” she whispers softly, words caught between awe and sheer terror because she has no idea why this is happening, why her touch should have made it happen if it’s magic or instinct or some deeper, stranger, older power that can’t be explained or known. “I’m sharing your pain.”

At that he lets out a rough snarl and jerks his hand out of her reach. Immediately the full weight of his pain assaults him and she watches what it does to him, how it threatens to break him, how he trembles. With an irritable growl she reaches forwards and makes contact with him again, “Don’t be so stupid,” she snaps at him, threading their fingers together to make it harder for him to pull away from her.

“You shouldn’t have to endure this,” he pants stubbornly, but seems too weak to wrestle her off of him just yet, which she uses to her advantage.

“Neither should you,” she shoots back irritably. Her voice drops, goes quieter, lower, when she adds, “You shouldn’t be punished for doing what you did. You shouldn’t be put through this for…For saving him.” Cassian’s eyes meet hers and there’s such a strange, overwhelming pulse of emotion in them that she looks away again, not sure she can bare it. She settles herself more comfortably on the ground, leaning against the rough stone of the balcony wall, feeling suddenly foolish sitting feet from him but clinging determinedly to his hand.

“Nesta, you don’t need to-“ he begins again, shifting in place, trying to break the connection between them but she glowers dangerously at him.

“I know I don’t need to,” she huffs impatiently, “But you don’t need to go through this alone, you can let other people help you sometimes.” She cuts herself off, clamping her lips tightly together and looking away from him. He could have said the same thing to her, she had shut herself away, had refused Rhys’s attempts to explain, Azriel’s quiet offers of food, or extra blankets or to introduce them to some of the staff to make them feel at home, Mor’s once frequent and now sparing visits to check on her and Elain, to reach out, to help.

Another thought strikes her and she turns to Cassian, studying him, trying to determine if she might be right. Her instincts on people are usually uncertain at best but she’d felt so sure, had felt understanding burst between them like a lightning strike shimmering along that strange tether that pulses gently in her chest sometimes. The source of which she’s realised...is him.

Slowly, tentatively, watching him all the while for his reaction, she says, “That’s why you’re up here, isn’t it?” she says softly, gesturing around at the isolated tower around them. The tops of it which she can see where she’s perched on the balcony are crumbling and she suspects these rooms – remote and cut off from the rest of the place as they are – haven’t been properly used or lived in for years. “You didn’t want anyone to see you like this, you didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for you or want to help you…you just….Wanted to go through it alone, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer her, only shifts his body in a way she’s noticed him do before as he tucks his wings in tighter against himself when he feels threatened or agitated. A tight pull of pain and emotion tugs at her chest in sympathy for him…Five hundred years, five hundred years with those wings and now…Now…

“You shouldn’t,” she says, a touch of anger colouring her words and she looks up at him, forcing him to turn and look at her as well. A flush of heat enters her cheeks at his stare but she presses on in determination, “You shouldn’t push them away, you shouldn’t hide from them. They’re your friends, your  _family_ , they love you, they want to help you, they’re all going out of their minds and you’re sitting up here alone, in agony, not letting them near you, it’s-“

A shadow darkens his face and he pulls his hand away from hers, clenching it tightly into a fist and bearing the shock of pain that descends on him as a result – though she can still feel a thread of it, even without touching him now.

 “Don’t tell me how I should deal with this,” he growls, his voice low and more rough and primal than she’s ever heard it before. “Don’t tell me how I should feel about this, how I should handle it when you have no idea what I’m going through, no idea what I’ve lost, how this feels-“ his voice cracks and he turns away from her, struggling not to crumble again as pain washes through him and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to break.

“I’m not telling you how to feel,” she snaps harshly, “I’m telling you how others feel, what you’re doing to them, how you’re hurting _them_ , I-“ She breaks off, as he droops and she knows that he knows, that she isn’t saying anything he hasn’t heard before. He knows how they feel, of course he does. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall, cursing herself. This isn’t getting them anywhere.

Tentatively, she slips her hand back into his, squeezing it until he looks at her, looks down at their joined hands, his large and rough, hers gentle and small, connecting them once more, trying to soothe him. Each time she touches him that thread inside her burns brighter, thickening and strengthening, as though every time she touches him, trusts him with that contact, with the willingness to share in his burdens and his pains, she forges something between them. Another link in an unbreakable chain that will bind her to him, stop him leaving her, keep him grounded.  

A shiver runs through her as a cold breeze lifts and Cassian blinks, apparently shocked at his own thoughtlessness. “You’re freezing,” he mutters, drawing her closer, an arm around her shoulders.

 He makes an odd motion, rolling his shoulder and she feels the explosion of pain in his tender nerve endings in response to the motion. She feels too what he intended to do, wrap one of his wings around her and pull her close, keep her warm. Instead he’s left panting with the effort, the mistake, his face buried in his hand, the other still held in hers, connecting him to her even as he withdraws.

Nesta makes an executive decision and moves in closer, pressing in against his side and sighing faintly in relief as the warmth of his body brushes against her frozen skin. Roused by the movement he puts an arm gently around her, drawing her in close. His breathing is still a little rough and when she cautiously rests her head on his chest she can hear his heart pounding beneath his shirt. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, doesn’t know why this feels so right but…From the moment he first touched her neck, made her feel as though fire was dancing along her bones in time to his will and whims she’s been craving this, having him against her, around her, touching her this way again. And it feels good, it feels as though this is where he belongs – at her side, his arm around her…It feels as though this is where she belongs too.  As though she could, some day, make her home in the steady, solid, shelter of his embrace.

She looks up at him and swallows tightly and knows then that she can’t…Can’t lose this. Whatever  _this_  is, whatever they have, whatever they might have, she can’t lose it. Because now that they’re connected this way she can feel more than his pain, more than the ghost of his wings that hovers behind him, haunting him, taunting him…She can feel his emotions as well, his grief, his hopelessness, his wish that he might fly again, one last time, even if this time feels more like falling...

She recoils from it, from that and grips almost convulsively onto that bond between them. The sudden urgent desperation of the instinct must cause her to send something of herself down it towards him because he blinks at her in surprise.

Before he can remark on it, she speaks again.  “You don’t have to do this alone, Cassian,”

 She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, hoping this might emphasise her words. It feels so small. So hollow, so hopeless. As if she can change anything. As if holding his hand, murmuring a few words can actually help him.

She waits for the defeat, for another surge of despair to wash over her through him. She waits for him to raise his eyes and look into hers and for her to realise how hopeless he is, how she hasn’t done anything at all, how she never could.

He doesn’t look up at her, right away though. He just stares at their interlocked fingers for another long moment before he slowly, tentatively, squeezes back.

Then he lifts his eyes and looks at her, rich, fire-hardened hazel meeting unyielding blue ice gilded steel, “Neither do you,” he says softly, his voice low and quiet. She shifts uncomfortably, turning away from him but he reaches out, takes her chin in his other hand and tilts her head back round until she’s facing him again, “Nesta-“ he begins but she twists, draws away for a second time, unable to bear it, the intensity of his gaze, the vulnerability that blazes through her, as though she’s bare before him and he’s staring into her very soul.

He doesn’t try and coax her back to face him again.

“It’s not the same,” she says, shaking her head. Cassian stays uncharacteristically quiet, letting the silence stretch, giving her time, letting her fill it. “You have people here, people who will help you, who would do anything for you-“

“So do you,” Cassian says. The firmness, the surety in his tone startles her so much that she glances up instinctively and meets his eyes again.

“If you mean Elain-“ she begins.

“No,” he says quietly, interrupting her, “Not only Elain,” his eyes are blazing and for the first time since she stumbled out onto this balcony and saw him convulsing in pain, grief tearing through him, torturing the very soul of him, she finds that familiar fire in his eyes again, sparked when he looked at her. “I have no doubt that she would do anything to help you, Nesta but...I meant what I said to you before.”

Her mouth goes dry. She remembers it too. She remembers that scene in her house, thinks she’ll remember it no matter how long she lives with these new immortal bones.  The silence, the way the room, the world, had seemed to empty until there was no-one left but them. Him looking at her swearing to fight, to kill, to die for what was important to her in a way that no-one else ever had before. She remembers the hand on her cheek, the contact, so intimate, so vulnerable, somehow more so than when he’d kissed her neck on his previous visit. It should have exposed her, should have weakened her, highlighted all her vulnerabilities in that moment, how raw and desperate she’d been. Yet it hadn’t. She had felt nothing but strength from that touch. She had felt...Safe.

She swallows tightly. She doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do, how she should respond, but Cassian continues, sparing her the necessity. “I failed you once before,” his eyes flicker towards her ears, the way they taper into points with the weight of all of her pain held in that gaze. She usually keeps them hidden, covers them with her hair but in all the confusion of tonight…Somehow his gaze doesn’t make her want to cover them again.

”I won’t do so again.”His voice jolts her back to herself and she meets his eyes again, strong, so strong for all they’ve witnessed. She glances away again, unable to bear it. Looking into his eyes feels so...Overwhelming; as though if she looks for too long, especially when they’re full of such emotion, she’ll drown in them.

“You never failed me,” she murmurs softly to their joined hands. She doesn’t look at him, she can’t, but she says the words. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened, it…It wasn’t your fault.” She feels him tense beside her, feels his hand clench in hers but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at her.

The bond between them pulses, suddenly strong and sharp in her chest, radiating through her. “You will get through this,” she tells him quietly and this time she makes herself look up, makes herself meet his startled eyes. “If I have to drag you screaming and writhing through hell itself…I will make sure that you get through this.” He stares at her and she wonders if he knows, knows what those words mean to her, what that pledge, that promise means to her, what she will do to uphold it. A part of her wonders why she promised him that at all…But the rest of her doesn’t care because deep in her bones she knows…She can’t do this without him.

Cassian seems overcome for a moment but then rallies himself, looks down at her, “And you,” he breathes softly, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ears, “You will get through this as well. I swear it.”

Nesta looks at him, wondering at the oaths they’ve just exchanged. She gives him a terse nod of her head, accepting it, accepting his promise, his…help. He’s close…So close. She can see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes still a little fogged and dull with pain but with a spark daring to glitter in their depths. Leaning forwards she presses her forehead against his, not sure what prompts the motion but…Something in her tells her that it’s right.

Softly, for only her to hear, he murmurs a soft string of words in a rough yet oddly melodious tongue. It falls on her ears like melted ore, thick and hot and strong and she feels something shiver deep in her core in response.

“What was that?” she asks him softly. They’re still tucked so closely together that her breath stirs his hair.  

He gazes at the wall opposite them, all rough black stone, but she knows that he isn’t really seeing it, that his mind is elsewhere, drifting over treacherous black peaks capped with rings of snow that look like glowing halos in the early morning light. She can smell the sweet grasses and rough stones of the mountains that smell like a home she’s never known but longs in her heart to see again.

“It’s an old tradition,” he says quietly, his eyes still a little distant. “An oath sealed between Illyrian warriors before they enter a battle field. It’s a pledge for partners, to fight together, to kill and die for one another, to do whatever it takes to ensure the other survives the fight ahead.” Nesta swallows tightly as she realises what he’s sharing her, what they’re entering in together. She stays quiet and he clears his throat, “The words are ancient and difficult to translate into this tongue but…” He closes his eyes, sways slightly to music on he can here and chants quietly under his breath, “My sword for yours, my honour for yours, my body for yours, my blood for yours. Your life is mine; and mine is yours – for now until death cleaves us apart.”

He coughs, bringing them both back to reality then says, a hint of humour twinkling in his eyes, “It’s supposed to be sealed with blood but under the circumstances…” he gestures towards their clasped hands, the current states they’re in, him exhausted, looking half-way to death and her sitting with her nightgown plastered to her skin, dark smudges blotting the pale skin under her eyes from her lack of sleep.

“No,” she agrees primly, “You’re not getting blood all over my favourite nightdress.”

That coaxes a soft smile out of him but then his eyes are sinking down to her lips before flickering back up to her eyes, catching the hitch in her breathing, the way her mouth parts with a soft intake of breath. “Although…” he murmurs softly, his fingers ghosting tenderly through her brassy hair, the tips faintly caressing her cheek as he strokes downwards. “We should still seal it somehow.”

Without conscious thought her body arches a little closer to him and her eyes seem trapped in his, feeling as though if she looks away she’ll break some kind of spell that’s descended over them, wrapping around them. The pain that was throbbing faintly in her back diminishes until it’s little more than a whisper and then fades entirely as everything seems to fade around them. His pain vanishes as well and she watches his body seem to cave in on itself, his muscles relaxing, the tension releasing, like a taut bow string cut in half.

“Yes,” she whispers onto his lips when they’re a hair’s breadth from hers, waiting, kindling that tension again in a heartbeat as he seeks her permission, her acceptance of what they’re doing, what they’re promising, what they’re sealing here in this quiet moment at the top of the crumbling tower of the House of Wind with nothing watching them but a handful of stars spread in the velvety sky above them.  “We should.”

His lips meet hers and she feels her own muscles release, feels the tension that she hadn’t noticed she’d been carrying all these years leave her, flooding out into the waiting darkness around them. Like his touches in her home in the mortal realm a thousand years ago, before she was Made and he was broken, he is exquisitely gentle with her. He barely brushes her mouth with hers to begin with, testing, hesitating, savouring.

He withdraws after barely a brush and she bites back a whine of disappointment, not opening her eyes. The hand he has on her cheek shifts, his fingers slide gently beneath her chin, tilting her face up towards him. She offers him no resistance and with a faint thrill in her chest she feels him move in again. This time the press of his lips to hers is a little harder, a little surer and she’s more ready for it. She allows it, welcome it, tips her head up a little higher, trying to communicate that she likes this, that she wants more from him. He gives it to her, letting this one linger, only a few seconds and not enough but more, more.  

The next time she nudges in closer and catches his face with her hand, drawing him back down before he can pull away or ask a question. This time she leads them a little more, letting herself explore the shape of him, the feel of him, the heat, the softness. Her lips move tentatively against his and he feels him respond, guiding them a little more, showing her what to do.

This time when they draw back the pause is a little longer until she says, her voice oddly rough and hoarse, “I don’t feel like that could have sealed anything at all.” he arches an eyebrow at her and she eases forwards, still wary of the state he’s in, not wanting to jar or hurt him. She lowers herself down into his lap and slides a hand through his hair. She’s breathing so hard and so fast, her heart pounding in her chest as though she’s run a mile when in reality all she’s done is slide forward a few inches until she’s resting in his lap, cradled against his body, so much larger than hers.

 “If you’re going to kiss me, Cassian,” she says, her eyes fixed on his, “Kiss me properly.”  

A rough smile tugs at his lips and he captures her face in his hand and pulls her up to him. This time their lips crash together the way his sword might strike another’s on a battlefield; the way her heart slams against her ribs as it pounds so hard she’s sure it might shatter. He gentles the kiss a moment later but keeps his mouth moving, coaxing hers to open for him. She allows it, letting out a soft whimper into him, feeling his broad, calloused hand press gently at the small of her back, holding her closer. The other slides into her hair, his fingers digging in deep, shaping her movements. She lets him lead them, lets him press his tongue gently into her mouth, soft and warm, tasting like a odd blend of some kind of citrus herb and whisky. She likes it, likes him, likes this.

“Is this proper enough for you, sweetheart?” he asks with a soft smirk when they pause a moment, both panting for breath.

Unwilling to waste the time or energy thinking of something suitably witty to needle him back she only says, “Yes, commander,” before she kisses him again, making him groan.

When at last he draws away he presses his brow to hers, his eyes closed, his hand finding hers and holding it against his chest. She doesn’t know if it was a deliberate move on his part but she can feel his heart thumping beneath his loose black shirt. She shifts her fingers slightly, sliding in at the loose neck, unlaced and open down to his sternum. Parting the folds of fabric she slides her hand gently underneath until it presses against his skin, directly over his heart. The rhythmic thump of it beneath her small, delicate fingers is more reassuring, more comforting, than she’ll ever be able to put into words.

Meeting Cassian’s eyes again she takes a breath and slowly, haltingly, repeats the words of the Illyrian pledge he had translated for her, to him. There’s such wonder, such devotion in his eyes when she finishes that she can barely stand it. Arching up again she kisses him deeply again, sealing this part of their pact as well. She’s not going to let him slip away, not going to let him succumb to the black despair she can feel pooling in his soul. He’s hers now – he swore it to her- and she’s not letting him go that easily. If she has to survive this, fight this, find a way to live in this body, live as a monster, as something she loathes with every fibre of her being, then he can damn well fight this too. They can fight it together. She can learn how to be made and he can learn how to be broken. Somehow.

When they’ve gone quiet for a long while, their hands still clasped together, still sharing the occasional pulses of pain Cassian feels in his phantom wings, and she has her head resting neatly against his chest, he breaks the silence. “How did you find me?” he asks quietly.

She raises herself slowly, her hair falling down over one shoulder as she frowns at the question. “I don’t…I don’t know,” she murmurs, not quite meeting his eyes as she speaks. He slides his fingers under her chin and tilts her face up so she meets his eyes again. “I couldn’t sleep,” she says, shifting uncertainly, “I got out of bed and I…Walked until I found this tower, found you.” He raises an eyebrow and she bites her lip, wondering what he’ll say, what he’ll think if she tells him the full truth but then-

“You can feel it too, can’t you?” She looks up at him, her throat tight with fear, barely daring to breathe. “This…Connection,” he adds carefully. She’s sure he was going to say something else, something more, but she accepts his choice of word without comment, only nodding.  

Slowly she lifts their clasped hands and coaxes his to splay, allowing her to press it palm first against her chest, in the centre, where she can feel that string, that _chain_ , tugging her. “It’s here,” she murmurs quietly, her voice faint and strangled sounding, “The…Connection,” she says, echoing his word, his hesitation, “I can feel it here.”

His fingers clench, pulsing like a contracting heart over the place she had guided him too. Without taking his hand away he looks up at her, his eyes heavy and dark, suddenly showing his years, the centuries of pain that he’s bourn upon his heart.

“You know what it is,” he murmurs quietly. It’s not a question but she nods, the tight lump of terror tight around her throat and heart preventing her from saying more.

He nods too, mirroring her motion. Then he slides his other hand into her and coaxes her forwards until her forehead is pressed against his again and she closes her eyes, nestling into him. “You don’t have to choose,” he whispers hoarsely and her heart seizes, understanding exactly what he means. ‘You don’t have to choose now’ but more than that…’You don’t have to choose me.’ “Not until you’re ready…If you’re ready,” he amends quietly.

Nesta lets herself sink into the calm, the precious silence he leaves in the wake of those words for only a moment, indulging in the simple act of not acting, of not choosing, not facing this, just being. Then she withdraws getting slowly, clumsily to her feet, her nightgown dropping down again, covering her. Cassian looks as though she’s torn the heart right out of him with her bare hands in the process of standing but she doesn’t move away from him.

“We should get some sleep,” she says, her voice a fraction harder than before, more business-like, more determined, not wanting to think or talk about anything else that’s passed between them, not now…Now all she wants to do is give in to the exhausted, draining pull of her weary limbs.

Cassian nods but doesn’t move until she reaches down and takes his hand, coaxing him to his feet. He obeys her, his movements slow and stiff, overly careful, as though he’s afraid of setting off the pain in his back again, but he allows her to lead him without a word back into the tower room.

Once they’ve been enveloped by the warm darkness of the bedroom she turns to him, “Can you walk a little further?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he says and she judges him too bemused by the oddness of this question to lie to her or put on some ridiculous show of bravado.

“Good,” is all she says before she moves towards the door but this time he resists, letting their arms go taut, not moving while she does.

“Why?” he asks, his eyes flickering towards the bed in the corner.

She shakes her head, “I don’t want to stay here,” she says firmly. The whole room is haunted, haunted by his ghosts, his demons, his agonised screams. She can’t stand the thought of him shut up in here, alone, no-one to hear him howling with the pain of losing his wings. She doesn’t want to remain in this place a second longer than she has to and she doesn’t want him here either, so isolated and abandoned.

He seems to sense at least something of her feelings in her through their new…connection…Or perhaps he can just see it in her eyes that way he’s always seemed able to, stripping past her layers of ice and armour until she’s bare before him, standing before him in nothing but skin and secrets. The thought no longer terrifies her…She finds an odd sort of comfort in the idea that someone….that someone might see her, might see all of her, all of her flaws, all of her small bitter hatreds and all of her twisted strangeness that no-one could ever properly account for…but still look at her the way Cassian is looking at her now.

He gives her a small nod and she takes his hand and leads him back down the cramped spiral staircase. They move slowly on account of Cassian’s still weak and aching body and she leads them through the deserted hallways excepting the few times Cass nudges her to take a different turn than she was planning, guiding her on a swifter route back to her rooms.  

Only once they’re safely inside does she drop his hand, he fails to completely conceal his wince of pain but she knows that she’s still sharing almost an equal portion of what he’s enduring. She can barely feel it anymore and she realises, as Cassian looks slowly around the room, taking in the Spartan, impersonal room that she has refused to imprint herself on, refused to accept as hers, that her agitation is gone. This room, whenever she’s stepped into it, has felt more like a torture cell than a bedroom. Every noise seems tailored to making her lose her mind, drilling into her skull over and over and over again refusing to loosen its grip on her, refusing to let her relax, drawing her focus over and over…Now they’re gone. There is only Cassian’s laboured breathing. She closes her eyes, clings tightly onto the corner of the four poster bed as relief pulses through her and tears sting beneath her lids.

“Nesta-“ Cassian begins, placing a gentle hand on his arm but she shakes her head, rolling and then squaring her shoulders before turning back to him.

“Come on then,” she urges, gesturing towards the bed.

Cassian reaches down and half pulls his shirt over his head before he stops, comically frozen in the middle of the action as he looks at her uncertainly. Huffing in mild irritation she gestures for him to continue, “Take it off,” she mutters, her voice flat and tired. She wants him comfortable, not shifting restlessly beside her all damned night.

She allows herself a moment to admire the hard lines of his abdomen and those beautiful, intricate Illyrian tattoos that snake over his arms and shoulders like the eloquent patterns of ink that had flowed from the calligraphy pens she had so loved to use when she had been younger. But her eyes catch too on the stark white bandages wrapped around his chest, at the conspicuous absence of his wings behind his back where they ought to be.

Forcing her expression to remain neutral she jerks her head irritably for him to join her at the bed but he pauses, politely, gesturing for her in turn, “After you sweetheart.”

Too exhausted to argue or snipe back she slid in under the sheets and feels a familiar dread coil in her stomach. Every night, every night since Hybern she’s had nightmares, has drowned again in the Cauldron’s depths only this time she never escapes, it never tips on its side and spills her on the floor as a monster, it won’t let her go. It shoves its frozen, choking black fingers down her throat and tears her apart from the inside out over and over and over again, refusing to let her go, whispering that she belongs to it now. Either that or she sees Elain, sees it happen over again, sees her thrown in there. She still doesn’t know what’s worse, the times when she rises and lifts her head and looks at her with a fae face, the pointed ears, the unearthly poise…Or the times when she doesn’t rise at all.  

The sudden pressure behind her as Cassian crawls in carefully behind her, grunting with pain as he lowers himself down onto his side distracts her from her morbid musings. He murmurs a goodnight and she murmurs one back without looking at him. The shaking starts a few minutes later and she clenches her hands into fists, choking back a sob because she can’t stand this, can’t-

“Nesta?” Cassian’s concerned voice sounds behind her and she takes a deep breath, swallowing her pride and letting that steel will and the iron walls that surround her melt away for him.

“I need you to hold me,” she chokes out to him, bunching the sheets between her fists, “Please,” she gets out.

He moves immediately, dragging his stiff, aching body towards her, wrapping an arm around her slender form and drawing her in against him. They fit as though they were made to, she thinks as he tucks her in close to him, keeping one arm around her, pressing her in close, softly stroking her hair, murmuring gently to her until she finds that same sense of calm safety that she always seems to lose herself in whenever she’s alone with him.

She falls asleep in his arms after only a half an hour or so of racing hearts and shallow breaths and jagged thoughts. She still wakes later, screaming, choking on the Cauldron’s filthy, death filled waters but when she does he is there. His arms tighten around her and he pulls her in close, stroking her, telling her that he’s here, he’s here with her, she’s safe now, safe, with him, with him. She presses her face against his chest, letting herself sob openly, not having the will or the strength or the need to hide her anguish from him. They’ve both shown the other the deep fissures that run through their souls – she knows his pain, has felt it, shared it, carried it- it’s only right that he should know and feel and share hers as well.

He rubs her back and strokes her hair and continues to murmur to her as she slowly calms down. She asks him to talk to her, to just talk and after a long time he murmurs to her again in Illyrian. He tells her the next morning that they were fairytales, old myths and stories told to children, the few things he remembered his mother, and then Rhys’ mother, murmuring to him when he was a child and couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t understood any of what he’d said to her but the rough, melodic words had been oddly soothing in their own way…and the emotions that they stirred in Cassian, the warmth, the happiness, the feelings of intense safety and warmth, of being in a place that he was loved and cared for and happy, had infected her as well through their strange connection, and with his fingers murmuring through her hair, she had drifted off again – something she’d never been able to do on her own.

When he woke a few hours before dawn screaming and clawing at his back she had pulled his hands away and held him as tightly as she could, as tight as he would let her. She had taken his hand in hers again and squeezed it, sharing the agony that was tearing through him, helping him to bare it, gritting her teeth and shouting his name over and over until he met her eyes at last and hoarsely whispered, “Sweetheart,” with the last pulse of breath left over from his howling agony.  

 She had nodded to him, softly stroked his cheek and tried to soothe him as best she could as pain wracked him again. She refused to let the tears gathering in her own eyes fall, but tenderly wiped his away with the ball of her thumb whenever they escaped his control. They ended that bout of pain and prayers for an end clinging to one another in a tight ball, her arms wrapped tight around him and his around her – keeping each other together.

Over and over and over again she whispered the words of the pledge he had told her on the balcony to him. He couldn’t leave her, he had to fight with her, he couldn’t let her do this alone, he wouldn’t. He shook his head and promised her that he wouldn’t when she asked to hear it, when she asked him to tell her again and again and again that he wouldn’t leave her, that he wouldn’t give up, that he would fight, that he would survive, that he would learn to live again…As long as she promised him that too. She always did.

Together they fell back down onto the mattress, curled around each other so tightly it was as though they had forged themselves into one being through their shared pain and endurance. They drifted back into dreams, still murmuring cracked, half-finished promises to one another. But they would fight this. They would fight against what had been done to them, and against what the world demanded they do now. They would fight with every bit of warrior’s fire and bitter steel they had left in them. They would fight and it was not in Nesta Archeron’s nature to lose…Not when she had something to fight for, not when she was no longer fighting alone….

Not when she had her mate beside her. Not when he was shattered and lost and scared…But still surviving and perhaps, with her arms around him, as his were around her, dreaming of, some day, living again.

****

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been on my laptop for about a century but writing and I have been having some Issues so that's why it's taken this long to surface. 1)- I am sorry. 2)- I am sorry. 3)- I am sorry. 4)- I hope you liked it pls tell me if you did?? (bonus round 5)- if anyone knows where I pilfered this title from they have to come talk to me it's the law)


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